Let No Man Put Asunder
by paperbkryter
Summary: Backstory featuring John and Mary Winchester. Possible spoilers through Shadow, definite spoilers for In My Time of Dying. Nothing scary in this one. Melancholy and angst.
1. The End and the Beginning

He felt trapped, cut off from the real world. All he could hear were the roar of flames. All he could taste was soot, and all he could smell was the bitter scent of blood. Even if he closed his eyes he could still see _her_ eyes staring back at him, the light and life forever gone from them. Her expression would be forever frozen in a look of abject terror. He would never be able to shake that vision.

His shoulders bent under an enormous burden. It was grief, and pain, and the responsibility of caring for two small children all by himself. More than that it was his newfound knowledge. Evil did exist in the world, and it could, and would, take innocent lives for no apparent reason. Part of his burden was fear, and part of it was anger. He was already afraid. The anger would come to fore later.

At the moment John Winchester's world consisted of the kitchen table and his own misery. At first glance one might thing the unkempt man hunched over the table was drunk, or at the very least, hung over. His clothing was soiled and creased, his face remained unshaven, his hair unwashed. Beneath the hands covering them, his eyes were puffy and bloodshot. Truth be told, John had drunk a couple of beers the night before, but only in a last ditch attempt to get some sleep.

The alcohol had helped very little. He slept, but was visited by nightmares, making him toss and turn in the sweat soaked sheets. He heard Mary scream and it woke him with a cry. He lay in bed, panting for breath, momentarily disoriented. They were not in the house, the house was gone. This was an apartment. Mary was gone too. He'd only heard her scream in his dreams.

He'd turned his face to his pillow and sobbed

If his own nightmares didn't keep him awake, the children did. Sammy's routine had been disrupted. He would not sleep through the night, instead waking more than once to be changed and fed, crying bitterly until John dragged himself out of bed to take care of him. John didn't mind so much. Sammy was not the jolly baby he'd once been, perhaps feeding off his father's grief, but he still had his moments. He would laugh and coo, and play with his toes until John had to smile through the tears.

It was Dean, however, for whom he worried. John had gone out to the kitchen for another beer, trying to chase his nightmare away, when he heard the boy screaming. His anguished cries cut John to the bone.

_"Mommy, Mommy, Mommy! I want my Mommy!" _

He would wait, listening, until the hysterical crying began, when Dean inevitably came to his senses and realized Mommy would not be coming. Only then did John slip into his son's room and gather him into his arms until the crying stopped and exhaustion dragged the child back to sleep.

That was at night.

During the day Dean retreated into his own little world. He spoke very little, and showed no interest in anything going on around him, including eating. The normally robust and healthy child was rapidly deteriorating. He grew paler, thinner, and more withdrawn with every passing day. John did his best, but sometimes he felt as if his son were slipping away from him both mentally and physically, attempting to follow his mother into the dark.

John rubbed his face, and raised his head, checking back into the world around him; a world wherein the baby was screaming at the top of his lungs, and the television was turned up too loud.

He glanced over into the living room. Dean was sitting on the sofa watching cartoons and eating Fruit Loops from the box. Like his father he looked disheveled and forlorn. His hair needed combed, his face washed, and although it was three o'clock in the afternoon he still wore a pair of grubby pajamas. John realized they were the same pajamas he'd been wearing for the past two days.

"_At least he's eating something," _John thought, as he wearily pushed himself up from his chair. He had no idea how long he'd been sitting there, maybe all day. He didn't know. He didn't care.

"How long has your brother been howlin?" he asked, as he shuffled past the couch. Not expecting an answer, he didn't wait for a reply.

Dean only shrugged.

John went into his bedroom. Sammy, his clothes, and the bedding were soaked. He'd worked himself up into a frenzy during the time he'd been crying. His little face was as red as an apple, and his little hands were clenched in white knuckled fists. A snotty nose and tear filled eyes completed the picture.

"You're a mess, kiddo," John murmured. He lifted the baby from his crib, and groped around in a nearby bag for a diaper.

He came up empty. There were none left.

"Jesus wept..."

So did Sam, gulping in big hitches of air as he gathered up for another hissy fit. He had to be changed, but into what?

"Dean!" John bellowed, as he pinned the half-naked baby down to the bed with one hand and grabbed at another plastic bag with the other. All of the baby's clothes had been destroyed in the fire, but the Red Cross had donated some things...

"Dean! Come here! I need a hand."

Sam let out a screech. John grunted as he hauled the plastic bag full of baby clothes onto the bed. The bag immediately broke, spilling everything back onto the floor.

"Dean, God dammit, get IN here!"

Turning, John yelled over his shoulder, not realizing his son had quietly come into the room and was standing right behind him. Dean flinched backward under the onslaught. Almost immediately he burst into tears.

"I'm sorry!" he wailed.

Sammy's volume increased as his brother joined the chorus.

John sank to the floor at the foot of the bed, burying his face in his hands. "Oh dear God, I can't do this. I can't...Mary..."

* * *

She came in out of the rain, pushing a bicycle, the old fashioned kind with big whitewall tires and a basket on the front. One of the tires was flat. The basket was full of books already swelling from the soaking they'd received. She'd been at the library. The pop-up shower had taken her by surprise.

John and Vince had taken a break from their work to have coffee and watch the rain pour down from the gutters. It was mid September and the rain brought with it the first hint of fall. As they stood there they'd marked the ragged figure's progress as she'd pushed the bike down the road toward them. Vince started another pot of coffee, for the warm air preceding the storm had now become chill and she was wearing shorts. She could probably use the warm beverage. They didn't recognize her until she pushed the bike into the garage and clawed the long, stringy strands of her wet hair away from her face.

"Do you have a phone I can use?" she asked.

They'd gone to high school with her. She had been the unattainable girl, the head cheerleader, the quarterback's girlfriend - although in Maribeth Copeland's case she'd dated the center instead. She was as as smart as she was beautiful, graduating valedictorian. Her father was a pediatrician, her mother was a prominent member of Lawrence's society set and sold real estate to rich people.

John's mother was a waitress, his father was a drunk. Dyslexia nearly cost him a diploma. Maribeth Copeland was as far out of his reach as Pluto.

He handed Maribeth a cup of coffee and pointed her toward the office. "It's in there," he said.

"Thanks."

Her bike caught his eye from where it leaned against the bumper of the shop's battered old tow truck. "Do you, uh...want me to fix that?" In case she might balk at the idea, he added, "on the house," and he smiled.

It was the smile that won her over. She would tell him later she'd never in her life seen such a sweet and honest smile. It dimpled his cheeks and lit up his eyes and if he'd told her at that moment to jump off the highest building in town she would have done it.

"Sure," she said instead. "I'd like that. Thank you."

While he patched the hole in her tire, John couldn't help but overhear her on the phone. It didn't take long to realize who she was talking to - her boyfriend, the ex-center from Lawrence's high school football team. Like Maribeth he came from that other world. Everyone expected them to get married. He was in law school. Unlike John and Vince he'd never set foot in 'Nam, or eaten macaroni and cheese three times a day when there was nothing else. Where John was dark haired and dark eyed, Scott Douglas was as blue eyed and blond haired as Maribeth. Their children would be little clones of themselves.

_If_ they got that far. From the sound of her voice, Maribeth was none to happy with her fiance at the moment.

_"I'm at Guenther's."_

_"Can't it wait? I'm cold, I'm drenched."_

_"I don't believe you! Jesus, Scott!"_

_"No. No, don't bother." _

She hung up the phone with a bang.

After a moment she came out into the garage bay and stood in the open door, staring out into the parking lot at the road beyond. Rivulets of water ran down from the road into the unpaved parking lot of the garage, turning it into a slick, shallow pool of mud. She drank her coffee and shivered. John watched her for a moment before rising from where he knelt beside the bike to offer her his coat.

At first he felt foolish. The coat was old and threadbare, and covered in greasy black smudges from where he'd been leaning over grimy car engines. His hands were dirty too, save where he'd scraped his knuckles trying to get a bitch of an alternator out just that morning. There were clean spots there, beneath the band-aids.

She was wearing a pale pink shirt. Her shorts were khaki. She wouldn't want an old, filthy mechanics coat no matter how cold she got. He understood the dividing lines between the haves and the have nots. She had, he had not.

John blushed, and waited for the rejection.

Much to his surprise, it never came. Instead she thanked him and pulled the coat around her with the hand not holding her coffee mug. She turned the worn, faux-fur collar up around her face, snuggling down into it for warmth. Her eyes were bright, her expression one of gratitude.

"Thanks," she said.

"Sure." He nodded toward her bike. "I'm almost done, but it doesn't look like this rain is gonna let up any time soon."

Her tone was bitter and still tinged with anger. "No," she said. "It doesn't."

John hesitated.

She turned her head to look at him. Her eye caught his and held it when he might have looked away. Even with her hair hanging around her face, soggy and limp, and her makeup running down her cheeks like black tears, she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. They stared at each other for a long, breathless moment, before _she_ looked aside. It made him bold.

"Do you need a ride home?" he asked.

Maribeth looked up at him once more. "I don't want to take you away from your work.."

"Oh, that's okay. I mean..." he found himself melting again, smiling shyly as he put both hands in his pockets and shrugged. "The name on the sign is Guenther's, but half it is mine. I can take a few minutes off I guess..."

She laughed. "Why didn't you put your name on the sign too?"

"They charged by the letter. We could only afford one, and his name is shorter than mine."

"What's yours?"

"Winchester," he said hastily, realizing that before he offered her a ride home, he might have introduced himself. "John Winchester."

"I'm..."

"Maribeth Copeland, I know."

There was a momentary, and very awkward silence as their eyes met again.

"Call me Mary," she said softly.


	2. Backward and Forward

John couldn't say how he knew, maybe it was a soldiers' instinct, or some sort of second sight, but he had felt another presence in Sammy's nursery that night. He'd felt a _presence. _Whatever it was, it hadn't been human.

No human being could have done what it had done to Mary, as quickly as it had done it. Only seconds had passed between her scream and John making it up the stairs. No human could have pinned her to the ceiling without any bindings, and no normal fire could have burned so hot nor spread so quickly. Only his military training had saved John from becoming another tragedy that night. It chilled him to the bone to think of what might have been. He could have been killed, and the boys too, Sammy certainly. Dean might have survived had he turned and run.

Act, don't think. That's what Vietnam taught him. Stay low, move fast. He had saved himself, and his boys, but he hadn't been able to save her.

Questions plagued him. What had it been? Why had it come to them? Would it come back, and what would he do if it did? He needed answers, and he needed them quickly. The safety of what remained of his family depended upon it.

But where would he go to get those answers?

The toaster popped, making him jump. Everything made him jump these days. He was loathe to leave the apartment, take the boys out into the open, but Mary's death had proven even home was not safe. He hadn't been to work in weeks. Vince brought him some money, his share of that week's profits and then some - a loan for which John was grateful.

"I have to find the answer, Vince. I have to know."

Vince had frowned at him. "What answer? Know what?"

"I need to know what killed her."

John knew what his friend and business partner was thinking, that grief addled his mind. "John," he'd said gently. "The fire department..."

"They weren't there!" John had cried, grief and anger making his voice rough. "There was something in that room, Vince. I know there was! And if it comes back..." He'd broken down then, fear rising up to grab him by the scruff and shake him hard. The boys were all he had left of Mary. He'd die before he let anything hurt them.

Vince told him to take all the time he needed, but his expression was grim as he'd left the apartment.

John put peanut butter and jelly on the toast and poured a glass of milk. He took both to the table and put them front of Dean. Sammy watched from his high chair, his fist in his mouth as he carefully deposited a single Cheerio inside. The tray of the highchair was awash in cereal and dribbles of milk from the baby bottle. John righted the bottle so it wouldn't drip anymore before sitting down at the table.

Dean looked at the toast as if it were crawling with bugs. After a moment he rolled his eyes up at his father and asked to be excused.

"After you eat."

"I'm not hungry."

"I don't care. You aren't going anywhere until you eat your breakfast."

Dean poked a finger into the jelly and licked it off. "Tastes funny," he said quietly, and folded his hands in his lap. His eyes grew vacant as he simply stared unhappily at the plate, making no effort to eat. He'd gotten worse since the funeral. John had become seriously afraid for his health.

The funeral had been had been difficult on all of them, but Dean in particular. John hadn't wanted to attend, not in his paranoid state of mind when he saw danger lurking around every corner. He hadn't wanted a public funeral at all, but had been overruled by his in-laws. Margaret Copeland planned her daughter's funeral as if it were one of her open houses, complete with hors d'oeuvres. The church in which it was held was filled to capacity. Very few of the attendees had ever met Mary, most didn't have a clue who John was at all.

"Oh," they'd say. "You're the husband."

_The husband_, as if he didn't matter. Condolences were reserved for Dr. Copeland and Margaret.

Things went sour with Margaret almost immediately. She came to whisk the children away, particularly Sam who shared his grandfather's name. She wanted to show them off to her husband's colleagues. John refused to let the baby be held by anyone other than himself and Dean could not have been pried away from his father's leg even if John had allowed him to go. Margaret went away angry. She didn't understand.

It just wasn't safe.

People came to John instead. They cooed at Sammy, who entertained them with grins and spit bubbles. They exclaimed over Dean, likening him to his mother.

"He looks just like Maribeth at that age, doesn't he?"

"Oh, he has his mother's eyes!"

The more it was said, the tighter wound Dean became. John could feel the tension through the death grip the boy had on his hand and the trembling of his small body. Each time John glanced down at his eldest son, the more alarmed he was at how distressed Dean looked.

Halfway through the eulogy, he felt a tug on his sleeve.

Mary's eyes looked up at him from a pale, pinched face.

"I want to go home, Daddy."

John didn't need any more incentive. He got up, and left, much to the horror of his mother-in-law and the confusion of the other mourners.

That night Dean had a nightmare that left him completely incoherent. John went to him when the crying began and discovered not only had he wet the bed but had bitten his lip so badly it bled all over his pillow. The sight of the blood terrified him even further. He would not be consoled no matter what John did, and and did not eat or sleep for two days afterward.

Reluctantly, John had called Dr. Copeland. His father-in-law prescribed a mild sedative. It helped with the anxiety during the day, and diminished the effects of the nightmares, but it also left Dean even more dull and listless. His appetite had not improved.

Obviously.

Sammy drooled over one fist and banged on the high chair tray with his free hand, making milk and Cheerios bounce down onto the floor around him. Removing the baby's fist from his mouth, John inserted the bottle instead. Judging by the slurping that followed, there was nothing at all wrong with Sam's appetite.

"Sammy's gonna finish before you."

Sammy's brother was unimpressed. He eyed the toast warily before gazing up at John with a pleading expression. "I'm not hungry, Daddy. Really."

"Can you at least drink the milk? Please?"

With a sigh, Dean stared at the glass of milk After a moment he lowered his eyes. He toyed uneasily with one corner of a paper napkin, shredding it into tiny pieces. "Mommy always put chocolate in it," he whispered, and started to cry.

John closed his eyes wearily. "I'm sorry," he said roughly. "I'm sorry..."

* * *

A week after John had driven her home, Mary Copeland appeared at the shop looking for him. It took him by surprise. He hadn't expected to see her again. After all, he'd just been a good Samaritan, helping out an old friend from high school who needed a lift.

It wasn't raining when she came by the second time, and he was struck dumb by the full effect of her beauty. With the morning light shining in through the garage doors behind her, and a breeze tugging at her long blond hair, she looked like an angel. She was wearing jeans and a sweater that matched the smoky gray-green color of her eyes. When she caught his gaze with those eyes, he found he couldn't look away no matter what he tried. She seemed to be able to see right through him.

"I dumped my fiance," she said

John immediately asked her to go out with him.

From the promptness of her answer, this was what she'd wanted him to do.

If anyone had asked him back then if he believed in love at first sight, he would have scoffed at the very idea. Many years later, when he came to believe in some other unusual things, he changed his tune. He never understood what a pampered little rich girl saw in a guy from the wrong side of the tracks. Some twist of fate had brought them together, just as it would ultimately tear them apart. For the first three years they dated he lived every moment he spent with her to the fullest, always fearing the time when she would leave him for a man more worthy of her. He never told her his fears. He never had to though, she always seemed to know what he was thinking, and she always seemed to be able to soothe even his deepest heartaches with just a smile and a kiss.

By the time a warm spring night in 1978 rolled around, fate and destiny were the farthest things from John Winchester's mind. He was more than a little preoccupied with the beautiful woman lying beside him, the woman who, after three years, was still part of his life. Even after three years of dating and two years of living in sin, he never failed to be shocked when he woke up in the morning to her smiling face.

Her parents hated him. His mother, who had become a widow not long after John and Mary met, didn't care one way or another. In fact, within the next year, Gala Winchester would move away from Lawrence. John would never see her again.

There was a full moon shining high in the night sky, and a lamp on the utility pole under which they were parked. They'd just come back to Lawrence from a rock concert in Topeka, and in a fit of nostalgia they had snuck into one of the parks, to the place where they'd first consummated their relationship.

In the misty blue light that filled the car, John could see Mary quite clearly. She was grinning.

"You know," he said softly, grinning back. "If the cops come by and see us your mother is gonna hear about it. She'll have a coronary."

"Why? Because her daughter was caught naked in the backseat of a car with a filthy grease monkey?"

"Have you reminded her lately that I have a name other than Filthy Grease Monkey?"

"I think it's cute."

Laughing, John made monkey noises at her and tickled her ribs.

"Stop!"

Her laughter was like music, like a chorus of bells falling down the scale in a waterfall of sound. It suited her. She was heaven. She was magic. He still couldn't believe she was real.

She was though. Her warmth was real. The softness of her skin beneath his hands was real, and so was the scent of her perfume. _Her_ scent mingled with the perfume as he warmed her even more with his touch. Their laughter faded. Things became more serious.

John dipped his head to kiss her neck, rising to shift her body beneath his. Her hair snagged the rough stubble on his cheek. She raised a hand to pull it back. With a sigh she gazed up at him and gave him a look of utter contentment, her lips curving upward in a wry, toothless smile.

"What?" he breathed. He dipped his head, kissing the top of one breast. She wound her fingers in his hair and sighed again.

"I wouldn't want to be anywhere else in the world right now."

He cocked his head and grinned at her. "Really? 'cause I can think of a lot of places nicer than the back seat of a busted up Chevy."

"Shhh." Mary patted the seat upon which they lay. "She's a work in progress. Don't hurt her feelings."

"Gas guzzling piece of sh..."

"John!"

"Shiny metal," he finished, chuckling.

Mary pulled him down to kiss his mouth, and he had to admit, she made the back seat of a busted up Chevy seem awfully damn nice.

Her legs slid slowly up his thighs. He took it as an invitation. They hardly had to think about sex anymore, their bodies were well tuned to each other, everything falling easily into proper alignment. The awkward phase, the getting to know you phase, was long past. John had mapped every inch of her body. He knew where to touch her, how to please her, and where to find his own pleasure. They flowed into and around each other as if their bodies were liquid. Shared sensation made it difficult to know where one ended and the other began. Mary's long hair, bleached white in the moonlight, trailed over the edge of the seat onto the floor. John gathered her into his arms, and it spilled over his shoulder. He inhaled its scent.

Lilies.

"No place," she murmured breathlessly,when all was said and done. "No place I'd rather be."

John held her tighter, kissed her hair. "Then never leave here. Never leave me."

He heard her breath catch. She raised her head so she could look into his face. "Is that a formal proposal John Winchester?"

It took him only a heartbeat to decide upon his answer.

"Yes," he said.

Mary grinned broadly. "You really are trying to kill my mother!" She sobered then, cupping his face between her hands. Pulling him down toward her, she kissed his forehead as if in benediction. "Yes," she said softly. "I will stay with you forever and ever."

"Till death do us part?"

"Like death could part us," she snorted, and then burst into laughter.

She'd heard the warning bleat of a police siren as a cop pulled up behind them.


	3. Our House is a Very Fine House

She stood in the doorway looking up at him with a cocky tilt to her head and her hands on her hips. Somehow he'd thought she'd be older, and possibly taller. She was about his age and not very imposing at all.

Until she opened her mouth.

"What took you so long?" she demanded. "I've been waitin' for you."

John blinked. "You...what?"

"Don't stand there gawpin' like a fish outta water, John Winchester, get in here before those babies catch cold!"

"But how did you..."

Missouri Moseley pointed to the faded sign in her front window. "Can't you read?"

He _could_ read, and that was the reason he'd stopped. For days he'd been driving back and forth past this small brown house on his way from the apartment to the grocery store and had never given it a second glance. Today, however, the sign had caught his eye:

**Missouri Moseley**

**Psychic Counselor **

A psychic. ouldn't a psychic know about – things - dark things, things that weren't supposed to exist? He certainly needed counseling. He was slowly going mad with fear, frustration and grief. Every step he took out of the apartment with the boys was an ordeal. John was a brave man, but faced with the unknown entity he still felt lurking around every corner, in every shadow, his bravado crumbled into dust. He needed answers. He needed to understand what it was, and how he could combat it.

If Ms. Moseley couldn't help him find the answers to those questions, maybe she could at least relay a message...

_Tell her I miss her. Tell her I need her. _

_Tell her I love her. _

John hesitated on the threshold, clutching Sammy close to his chest, holding Dean's hand tightly. The fear crept up in him, preventing him from taking that first step forward into uncharted territory. How could he know he could trust her? She knew his name. What if she was part of what had destroyed their lives?

Missouri looked back over her shoulder. The cockiness left her features. "I'm not," she said softly. "And I can help you, with just a little trust." When he did not respond she turned back around completely and plucked her coat from a rack by the door. "Maybe here is not the place for me to earn that trust. Why don't you show me what frightens you?"

Nodding, John agreed. "The house..."

They hadn't been back to the house since that night. Margaret had left him half a dozen messages regarding the property, asking what his plans were for it. It was the one thing the two of them actually agreed upon; it would have to be sold. John would never live in that house again. Legally it was now his, although the deed had originally been in Mary's name only. He could sell it and have a nice down payment on a new house, or set the money away for the boys' future.

For now, however, the house sat vacant and abandoned, the upper floor half gone, destroyed by the fire. Only broken, fire-scarred two-by-fours stood where the nursery and the master bedroom had been. There was a dusting of snow upon the blackened remains of furniture, toys and clothing still lying on the ground in the front yard. Incongruous to the dark, charred hulk of the Winchester house, all the other homes up and down the street were bright with twinkling lights, tinsel, and sprays of evergreen. Christmas was just around the corner.

John hadn't even bothered to ask Dean what he wanted for Christmas.

He pulled up in front of the house and parked the car before craning his head around to look at the boy. Dean sat in the back seat as far away from Missouri as he could get, plastered to the window, looking away from the house toward the one across the street. There wooden reindeer pranced across the lawn, a plastic Santa waved from his sleigh, music played from a couple of speakers set up near the front door. John could see the lights reflected in the Chevy's window. The glass fogged and cleared in time to Dean's breathing. John saw his son sigh.

Missouri stared silently up at the house. A blast of cold December air blew into the car's warm interior as she got out it. Dean turned his head to watch her but made no move to follow. John coaxed him out while Sammy fussed about having to be wakened from a nap. John gathered him up and took Dean by the hand. They stood at the end of the walkway, three silent monuments to tragedy. Missouri was halfway to the porch before she realized John was not following. She turned, questioning.

"It's all right, Dean," John said quietly. The reassurance was more for his own peace of mind than the boy's. He tightened his grip around the mittened hand resting in his palm. With his chin he flipped the hood down on Sam's little coat, protecting the baby's damp, red cheeks from the cold wind, and started up the walkway.

A foot away from Missouri, Dean put on the brakes.

He pulled back, shaking his head back and forth. His face was deathly white beneath his wool hat and his eyes were huge. John could feel him tugging at his hand with all his strength.

"Let's go. I want to go..."

Before John could say a word, Missouri was there, kneeling in front of them. She bowed her head and removed something from around her neck. It caught in the knit collar of her coat but she tugged it free and held it out to the struggling child.

"Here," she said. "This will help."

Dean stopped trying to flee. He looked at her gentle, earnest face, and then down at the gold pendant dangling from her hand. He regarded it warily before reaching out to take it from her. The charm lay in his palm, bright against the dark blue yarn of his mitten. Missouri smiled at him as he raised his eyes to hers again.

"What is it?"

"Protection, from scary things. Put it on," she urged. "You'll feel better."

John let go of his son's hand and watched the boy put the pendant around his neck. Dean stood there looking at the charm, turning it over and over in his palm.

"Now," Missouri slowly stood up again. "Whatever was in this house isn't there anymore. You _will_ be safe." She held out her hand, waiting patiently for him to take it. "I promise."

To John's surprise, Dean did take Missouri's hand, reaching out to wrap his fingers around hers in a tight grip. The two of them walked up onto the porch, their footsteps echoing hollowly across the wooden planks. John followed uneasily. The baby had stopped crying, and was eerily quiet - so quiet John stole a peek at him to make sure he was okay. Sammy stared back at him solemnly, as if he knew where they were. Not for the first time John found himself wondering how much the infant had been affected by everything that had happened. How much would a six-month-old remember?

"You you have the key?"

Wordlessly John dug into his pocket and produced it.

They entered the house. Missouri led them inside, clutching tightly to Dean's hand. Dean looked very pale, and very frightened, but he remained at her side. He held her talisman with his free hand, closed tightly in his first.

At the foot of the stairs Missouri stopped, gazing up into what was now gone. Only open sky could be seen above her at the top of the staircase. Snow fell softly down upon the steps, covering the shattered glass of a picture frame that had fallen from the wall and frosting the carpet in white. Snowflakes melted upon Missouri's dark cheeks and ran down from them like tears. After a moment she shuddered. She turned to look at John from over her shoulder. Her expression was grave.

"What was this? Do you know?"

"I was hoping you could tell me." John's voice was low, gruff with the strain of suppressing his grief. Even in its current state, the house felt like Mary. A breeze stirred the air. He thought he could smell her scent lurking beneath the stink of scorched woodl. Like Dean, he wanted to leave.

"I don't know," Missouri breathed. Her eyes narrowed as she creased her brow. "But I know this, it's bad, John. It's very bad. Only the barest hint of it remains, and it is foul. It is evil, truly evil."

"Where did it come from? Where did it go?" he demanded.

"I don't know." Abruptly she turned away from the stairs, pulling Dean along with her. She looked upset, and ill, as if what she felt affected her physically too. "I've had enough. Let's go. Now."

She brushed past John quickly, hurrying out the front door. John followed her out onto the porch where she turned Dean back over into his care as she almost frantically locked the door behind them. Her quick pace did not stop until they reached the car. She leaned against it, breathing heavily. It took a moment for her to catch her breath.

Dean started to give her pendant back. Missouri stopped him. "No, baby. You keep that, okay?"

For the first time since the night his mother died, Dean smiled. It was sad, and bittersweet, but genuine. "Okay." he said softly. "Thank you."

Missouri shooed him into the car and shut the door. She turned to John with a stern, yet sympathetic look on her face.

"You came to me for answers. I don't have the answers, and I'm sorry for that. What I can give you is advice, and the names of those who might be able to help you. There's another world out there, John Winchester, a world where evil lives and powers you and I can only imagine really do exist. I can give you the key to unlock that door, but only if you want it."

John regarded her solemnly. His voice was low and very rough. "Ms. Moseley," he said. "That door got busted wide open the night Mary died. What I need isn't a key. I need vengeance."

She didn't reply right away, taking a moment to look in through the car window at Dean. He sat looking back at her, his expression one of fear and worry. Missouri's jaw clenched.

"The first thing you have to do is get these babies out of here. This boy," she nodded toward Dean. "His fear is eating him alive. He saw more than you know, more than he knows how to tell. He looked into the face of pure evil and it has left some nasty, nasty scars." She continued as she pushed back Sammy's hood and touched his head gently. The baby watched, slightly cross-eyed, as she made a gesture of protection over his forehead. "And this one..."

John watched as her eyes grew slightly vacant. There was a long pause before they focused again.

All she said was: "Get out of this town as soon as you possibly can."

* * *

"Close your eyes," Mary said. "We're almost there."

Obediently, John closed his eyes. "Almost where?"

"You'll see."

"Not with my eyes shut I won't."

"Smart ass."

John chuckled. He heard the turn signal click, and felt the car turn. The big block engine he'd so carefully restored changed its tune as Mary let up on the gas. She muttered to herself. He heard the rustle of paper and her breathy, "Ah, there it is."

The car turned again, but this time more subtly. She'd pulled to a stop. A moment later she turned off the ignition. John heard the creak of leather as she leaned across the seat and grasped his face in her hands, turning his head toward his right shoulder before letting him go.

"Okay," she said. "Open your eyes."

He opened his eyes.

In front of him was a house, a white house with a porch and a big, gnarled tree in the front yard. It wasn't by any means a mansion, and it could use a little work here and there, but it was a nice house. Margaret Copeland would have said it was a "starter home."

Margaret Copeland probably did say it, as there was a "sold" sign in the yard bearing the name of her real estate agency on it.

John clenched his jaw.

Mary sighed. "I know what you're going to say."

She probably did. The Copelands' money was a sore point between them. Anything their Maribeth asked of them, they would give her. John was not in a position to do the same, and it hurt his pride. When she'd discovered it hurt his pride, Margaret threw salt in the wound by continually offering the young couple what John thought of as charity and Mary called generosity.

He had worked hard, saving every bit of money he could, in order to go in on the shop with Vince. The business was doing well, and John had more than enough money to support himself and a new wife in relative comfort. Sure things might be tough sometimes, but they'd get by okay. Mary didn't seem to mind as long as she had him. She also didn't mind taking her mother's gifts. John minded. He minded a lot.

"It's bad enough she's taken over the wedding..."

"Vegas is still an option," Mary said succinctly.

"But now she's bought us a house?"

"John..."

"No."

She gave him a "look."

Most of the time he caved when she looked at him like that, but at the moment he was too pissed off. He was sick of Margaret Copeland's interference - sick to death. "I won't live in that house. _Her_ house."

"It's _my_ house. So you're going to let me move in there alone, huh? Where are you going live? Here?" She gestured to the back seat of the car before flouncing around in the driver's seat to stare angrily out the windshield with her arms folded across her chest. "You're a stubborn bastard John Winchester."

"And you're a spoiled rich brat!" he snapped back.

He regretted it immediately, regretted it even more when she shot him a glare and shoved open the car door. She snatched up her purse before she got out, slammed the door shut with a bang, and started off down the sidewalk. He waited a moment before determing she was not going to come back.

John groaned, and went after her, catching up halfway down the block. "Mary..."

"Get away from me."

"Oh, come on, don't be like this..."

She turned, her hair swirling around her shoulders. "Like what? A spoiled brat? You knew," she shouted. "You knew how she is. We've been together for three years, John. Three _years_, and just _now, _in the last three _months_, you're going to start acting like a shit because my mother wants to help provide for us? What the hell?"

"She wants to control us, Mary!"

"She does not!" Her eyes darted across the road, where a man had paused to look toward the source of the shouting. Lowering her voice, Mary ground her teeth and continued. "If you want out, just say so. I'm sure my mother would gladly sacrifice the money she's already spent just to get rid of your sorry ass."

"My sorry ass?" John growled. "My _sorry_ ass." She rolled her eyes away from him. "Right. Fine. I just take my sorry ass out of your life right now and you can call the whole damn thing off!"

He turned away, moving quickly back down the sidewalk to the car. Hurt and angry, very angry, he fumbled for the key and started the engine with enough force he was surprised he didn't snap the key off in the ignition. The car roared beneath the heavy press of his foot on the gas, seeming to strain against the gears holding it in park. Grabbing the shift, he jerked it into drive and gunned the engine, his intent to take off in a screech of rubber on blacktop.

The Chevy had other ideas. She gave one bucking lurch before her motor coughed, sputtered, and died.

John cursed, and slammed it back into park. He twisted the key angrily. The engine cranked, and cranked, and cranked, but refused to turn over.

"God damn piece of shit!" He slammed both hands on the steering wheel. The horn bleated in protest.

Throwing himself back against the seat, John pressed the heels to of his hands to his eyes and growled in frustration. He was breathing heavily. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest. It hurt. He wanted to get out and run back down the street, apologize, and hold her tightly to his chest. His pride, his damn pride got in the way.

He sat there for a long while before he heard the passenger's side door squeak open. The car rocked slightly. He caught the faint scent of her perfume. The door slammed shut again. John said nothing. He didn't know what _to_ say. Next to him Mary sighed, and it was she who broke the silence.

"You've just flooded it."

John opened his eyes. He watched as she reached down to the ignition, and turned the key. The engine started promptly. It ran steadily for a moment until he shut it off. He kept his eyes lowered.

"If you would have let me explain before you went off the deep end..." The words were phrased as a question.

He inhaled a trembling breath and looked up at her, nodding. Her cheeks were dry, but her lashes were damp, the tears unshed. This was part of why he loved her so much. She had a strength deep at the core of her being most people could only dream of having. It came from her mother, but in Margaret it had created a bitch. John thought of Mary as a soldier, not a grunt like he'd been, but an officer. She earned respect instead of demanding it. She led by example, not force, and was a brilliant strategist.

She played a mean game of chess.

"I bought this house myself," she said. "Mother had nothing to do with it. I never finished my education. I was supposed to go on to medical school like my father, but instead I got involved with Scott. I gave up my career for him."

"A mistake," John murmured.

Mary reached out and took his hand in hers. "But a mistake that led me to you. I don't believe in coincidences, John. There are things working out there that we don't understand. I believe with all my heart we were meant to be. Let's not let some silly disagreement get in the way, please? I'm sorry. You know how short tempered I can be sometimes." She smiled wanly. "And you're not _sorry_."

He nodded. "Well, not like that anyway. Dammit, Mary! Your mother – God – she just..."

"Mom gave me a deal, that's all. She was having trouble selling this place. It needs a little fixing up, the owner didn't want to invest any more money in it. I bought it with what was left of my college money." Now the tears began falling, counterpoint to her smile. "It's mine, John. Marry me and it will be ours."

John ducked his head, sufficiently shamed. Eventually, however, a slow grin crept across his face. His expression was wry. "Is that a formal proposal Maribeth Copeland?" he asked, as he reached over and pulled her across the seat into his embrace. She let him kiss her, and he gently rubbed the tears away from her cheeks with his thumb.

"Yes," she replied.

She rested her head against his shoulder. They sat there together, not speaking, just holding each other. John rested his chin on the top of her head as she snuggled against his chest. He gazed out at the house. He could easily get it in ship shape. It _was_ a nice house, he had to admit.

"By the way," Mary whispered, as John quietly contemplated a picket fence. "Mom wasn't real happy when I told her she'd either have to move up the wedding date, or have the dress altered."

John frowned. "What? What are you talking about?"

Mary sat up and gave him a sly look. "She chose to move the date up and has sworn to tell all her society friends that the baby was born three months premature."

He stared at her. She favored him with the wicked grin he was so fond of.

"I'm pregnant."


	4. The Ghosts of Christmas Presents

John set the wheels in motion on Christmas Eve - literally. He packed provisions for a road trip, bundled the boys up in their warmest winter clothes, and drove from Lawrence, Kansas to Blue Earth, Minnesota. He arrived after dark, pulling up in the parking lot of a small Lutheran Church just as Christmas Eve services were ending. From inside the brightly lit building he could hear the faint strains of Christmas hymns being played on an organ as people began spilling out the front doors into the snowy parking lot.

In the back seat of the car Dean lay curled up beneath a blanket, sleeping off the exhaustion of a long, nerve-wracking drive through the snowy weather. He clutched the charm Missouri had given him in one hand. It seemed to be helping with the nightmares far more than the sedatives had. The boy slept quietly, despite the fact his eyes and mouth were pinched tight with fear, and a deeply-set worry line creased his forehead. John watched him with concern. He'd eaten only a few crackers and a cup of juice in the past twenty-four hours.

At the opposite end of the scale was Sammy, who had not only eaten rather robustly, but had cried for more. He'd slept through the harrowing drive, and was now wide awake. Oddly, he made very little fuss, although John could tell he needed changing and his bottle was past due. Instead of crying he peered out at the church from the depths of his car seat with wide-eyed wonder, contentedly sucking on his fist.

"That's the man we're here to see," John said quietly.

Sammy turned to look at him, attracted by the sound of the familiar voice. He smiled up at his father around his hand. John couldn't help but smile back.

"You're a silly baby," he said softly, and chucked Sammy under the chin with a finger, making the baby grin and giggle.

They turned their attention back to the man in the doorway. The last of the congregation were exiting the church, each pausing to shake hands with the minister. The music died, and after a moment a heavy-set woman puffed down the steps clutching a sheaf of sheet music to her chest. Behind her the doors closed.

John waited until all but one of the cars were gone before rousing Dean. "We're here. Put your hat and mittens on."

Dean obeyed slowly, yawning hugely as he groped for his mittens. He was still half asleep and John took pity on him. The trek across the slippery parking lot was made more perilous as John carried both boys in his arms. Dean rested his head on his father's shoulder, eyes closed and arms hanging limp at his sides. He'd fallen asleep again almost immediately.

At the door, John had to knock with the toe of his boot. He heard the sound echo inside the church as the steel toed workboot thudded against the heavy wooden door. After a second try, he heard the sound of the latch clicking, and the door creaked open. A man roughly John's age wearing a clerical collar stood within the bright rectangle of light streaming out of the door. John cleared his throat before speaking.

"Are you Jim Murphy?"

"John Winchester I presume?" Jim smiled and reached out his arms. John hesitated only a moment before depositing Sammy into them. "Come in, come in."

The church was warm and cozy. Jim's small apartment at the rear of the building was cozier still. Consisting only of a decent sized sitting area, a tiny bedroom and even tinier bathroom and kitchen, it was little more than a cottage. Its furnishings were worn but clean and tidy, well suited to a bachelor minister serving a small community, and probably had been donated to him _from_ said community.

"He needs changing," John said apologetically.

He set the bag slung over his shoulder onto the floor. Before he could say a word Jim had procured a diaper and was changing the baby himself. Through the open door of the bedroom John could see him sitting on the bed with Sam. The minister carried on with the conversation quite casually, as if he spent most of his day changing the diapers of squirmy infants.

"You can bring your other boy in here to sleep if you like."

John carried Dean into the bedroom and lay him down on the bed next to his brother. He and Jim stripped the boys of their coats and mittens. Dean grumbled a little at the manhandling, but didn't wake. They left him there. Sammy, wide awake and now demanding his bottle, went with them into the living room. Jim settled into a rocking chair with the bottle John gave him and the baby cradled in the crook of his arm.

He smiled and shrugged. "I've done some babysitting in my time," he explained."I come from a large family. My youngest sister is seventeen years younger than I am."

"Missouri said you could help me," John said quietly, shedding his coat and taking a seat on the sofa.

Jim raised an eyebrow. "You cut right to the chase don't you?"

"Can you?"

The young minister gave his visitor a long, appraising look. "Do you believe in God, John?" he asked finally, softly. It wasn't something John hadn't expected.

John leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. In his mind's eye Mary's death played over and over again like a tape recording stuck in a never ending loop - a never ending nightmare. His voice was rough.

"How can there be a God?" he asked, trying and failing to keep the anger and bitterness from his voice. "You tell me, huh? How could God let my wife die like she did? How could God have done this to these children?"

"I don't think what happened to your wife was the work of God," Jim replied calmly. "In fact, I'm sure of it."

"What was it then?"

"Precisely? I don't know." Jim switched Sammy over to his other arm and continued to rock. Sam looked all around as he ate, completely at ease. "Generally?" The minister shrugged. "There are dark things in the world, John. Some of them are very powerful, powerful enough to spit in His eye, and bring pain and horror into the lives of innocents like you and your boys."

"Missouri said you could help me," John repeated.

Jim's eyes grew hard. The benign minister momentarily disappeared, replaced by a man John wasn't sure he would want to take on in a fight. Here was the soldier Missouri had made him out to be, a soldier of God, a soldier of _good_.

"I can help you help yourself," Jim replied. "There are men out there who have taken up arms against the evil in the world, myself included. We know what's really out there, and we know how to combat it. Join us and we can teach you how to protect yourself and your children."

John leaned back against the sofa cushions. "I want that. I want my boys to be safe, but I also want the thing that killed my wife." His jaw clenched tight. "I want it dead."

"We can also teach you where to look for it. And how to destroy it." Rising, Jim handed Sam back over to John before going over to his desk and pulling out a notebook.. "You have your doubts about God, but not evil?"

"Yes."

Something in his voice must have sounded odd, for Jim turned from leafing through the book in order to look at him. They were both silent for a moment.

"Of course," Jim's tone was apologetic. "Because you've seen it, been touched by it." He pulled out a scrap of paper with two names and two numbers written on it. "This man in Nebraska, Caleb, he sells munitions. He can show you what you need, and how to use it. Are you familiar with firearms?"

"I was in the Marines."

"Somewhat helpful," Jim smiled. "But we do things a little unconventionally." He tapped the second name and number on the paper. "Once you get yourself armed, hook up with this man, Daniel Elkins. He's the best there is in this business. He'll teach you everything you need to know about what's out there in the dark."

John took the paper and folded it in half before tucking it into his pocket.

"You'll need money. Caleb doesn't come cheap."

"I can get money."

He'd made sure of that before he left, going to Vince and offering his partner his share of their business. The shop was doing well, and John knew Vince had good enough credit to take out a loan. He made his friend a generous offer. Vince hadn't been able to refuse. As soon as Christmas was over, they would draft up the paperwork, and Vince would buy him out

"Are you sure, John?" Vince had asked. "Maybe you should take some time. You're still in mourning..."

"No." John had replied. "This is what I want to do."

He reaffirmed that sentiment to Jim Murphy as he quietly, haltingly, told him what had happened that night. This time he kept absolutely no detail to himself. What had happened to Mary was no accident. He knew that with conviction.

"You say it was in the nursery?" Jim asked. He raised a brow as he glanced at the child in John's arms. "It was after the baby?"

"I don't know. I don't know what it wanted, or why. I don't care either, as long as it never comes near my family again."

John started to say more, to tell him how the pain never went away, and would never go away until Mary's death was avenged. She had given his life purpose. From the day they'd met until the day she died his entire life had revolved around her. Without her he was nothing.

Nothing.

He didn't say it. One reason was because he couldn't find the words. Everything seemed ill suited to express the agony her death had caused in him, and describe the lingering pain. Nothing at all could describe how much he loved her. The second reason was because of an interruption. A soft sound from the bedroom distracted the men from their conversation. Dean stood in the doorway, rubbing his eyes sleepily.

"Daddy?"

"I'm right here, Dean."

The boy hurried across the room and climbed up on the couch, snuggling close to his father with a wary eye turned on Jim. He yawned hugely, obviously still very tired, and was echoed by Sammy who punctuated his yawn with a burp. Dean continued to stare at Jim owlishly.

"Do you know what tonight is, Dean?" Jim asked softly.

Dean shook his head.

"It's the night when long ago, three wise men brought gifts to the baby Jesus. It's because of them that we give and receive presents on Christmas. It's Christmas Eve."

Turning his wide-eyed gaze up to his father, Dean asked. "Santa is coming?"

John sighed. He hadn't thought much about the holiday. He hadn't planned anything and secretly had hoped Dean would forget. Jim had put him in a tricky situation.

Before he could answer, Jim said. "Of course!" His attention fell on John. "The church hosts a community turkey dinner on Christmas day, for those who may not be able to have their own for one reason or another. You will stay of course. I wouldn't want you on the roads tonight. It was bad enough for you getting over here."

"I couldn't..."

"Could. And will." Jim insisted. "The sofa folds out. You and the boys will be fine here." He grinned at Dean. "And I'm sure Santa will find you."

"That's okay," Dean said quietly, after a moment's quiet contemplation. "He doesn't have to come."

"No? Why not?"

" 'cause he can't bring what I want."

The minister's expression softened. He knew, much as John did, what the child would say if he were to ask the obvious question.

"I think you're right, Dean," he replied. "I'm sorry."

" 's okay." Dean sniffed, but he didn't cry. Instead he turned his attention to his little brother's toes, which were poking out from under his blanket. Sammy had somehow lost one sock. He giggled as Dean tickled his bare foot. The boy was thinking as he tickled. After a while he looked up at Jim again. "He can bring Sammy sumthin'."

"And what would Sammy like?"

Dean shrugged. "Anything," he said softly. This time tears did come to his eyes. "He doesn't have nuthin'. It all got burnded up with Mommy."

John's stomach did a slow, queasy roll as the memories came rushing back at him. He remembered very clearly the stench of burning hair mingling with that of melting plastic as the fire surged around the nursery, devouring everything in its path. They'd gone to a hotel that night, and although the boy cried and protested, John had given Dean a bath and thoroughly washed his hair over and over again. Afterward he'd taken his own shower, scrubbing himself raw.

They'd taken the stench of death away with them.

"John?"

He opened his eyes to find Jim looking at him with concern. He cleared his throat. "If it won't be too much trouble, yeah, we'll stay."

"No trouble at all. Let me go round up some bedding. I'm sure you're all very tired."

"Thank you," John murmured.

That first, lonely Christmas the three Winchesters slept crowded together on Jim Murphy's sleeper sofa. The night was cold and the apartment's heater was taxed to its limit so they didn't mind the close quarters. Dean curled protectively around the baby, preventing him from rolling out of the bed, and pressed his back firmly against his father's. John could feel his slow, steady breathing. Thankfully, Dean slept quite soundly through the night.

Despite the foul memories and fear for the future weighing heavily on his mind, John slept well too, very well. It was perhaps the best night of sleep he'd gotten since Mary's death. Lying there on hallowed ground, in the company of a man of God, he felt for the first time that he and the boys were undeniably safe from harm.

Sammy's happy squeal woke him up the next morning.

Rolling over with a groan, he saw both boys sitting beside a tiny Christmas tree that had not been there the night before. There was torn paper and boxes all around them. Sam had a bow stuck to the top of his head. Sometime during the night Santa Claus, a.k.a. Pastor Jim Murphy, had paid them a visit.

As John watched Dean very carefully built a tower with large wooden alphabet blocks. When he'd used all the blocks, making the tower as high as he could without it falling down, he sat back and nodded with satisfaction. Sammy clapped his hands and blew a raspberry.

"Okay, go!" Dean said.

Sammy lunged at the tower and sent the blocks flying.

Both of them giggled.

Jim stood leaning in the doorway leading into the kitchen. He met John's eye.

"Don't let the darkness obscure the light, John," he said softly. "Always remember that."

* * *

Mary's parents had planned to relocate to Topeka after the wedding. The city had more opportunities for Margaret in the real estate business, and Dr. Copeland had been offered a prominent position at a hospital there. When Mary announced her pregnancy, they thought about staying. Mary convinced them to go anyway, and for that John would be eternally grateful.

Of course they insisted Mary visit them, and based on the doctor's predictions, they felt relatively safe doing so even well into Mary's ninth month of pregnancy. The baby wasn't due for another two weeks. There was also a break in the winter weather, allowing a window of opportunity safe for driving. John and Mary set out for Topeka early on a Saturday morning. They would stay for a chill, but civil visit, and then head for home on Sunday afternoon.

Sunday afternoon, in the middle of a traffic jam caused by an overturned stock trailer, Dean Winchester decided he was done with hanging out in his mother's womb. He wanted out, and he wanted out NOW. Apparently the sight of several Kansas state police officers attempting to round up a herd of cows running amok on the snowy highway was something Dean didn't want to miss. Therefore, like a spawning salmon, he attempted to return to the place of his conception, i.e. the back seat of a 1967 Chevy Impala lovingly restored to mint condition by his father.

John was not only worried about his wife and child, but the Chevy's upholstery. He escaped onto the berm, despite being threatened by the cops and a rogue heifer, and drove like a bat out of hell past the traffic until he could turn around and high tail it back to Topeka. Screeching up to the emergency room doors of the nearest hospital, he almost took out an ambulance, but he got there just in time. Mary was not five minutes into a delivery room before the baby arrived.

He was wrinkled and pink with a swirl of dark hair, and judging by the noise he made all the way from the delivery room to the nursery, he was regretting his decision to arrive two weeks early.

The Copelands, typically, had nothing but criticism. Dr. Copeland went to have a talk with the attending physician about Dean's nutritional needs, convinced that even at only two weeks premature, Dean was much too small. Margaret attempted to rename the child.

"Dean? Dean what?" she demanded, as she and John stood at the nursery window watching Dean sucking contentedly on his fist as he slept.

"Just Dean."

"No middle name?"

"I don't have a middle name," John stated. "Suits me just fine."

"What kind of name is Dean?"

"A perfectly good one."

Margaret snorted. "Dean Winchester. Sounds like a gunslinger from a bad western movie."

John grinned. He hadn't thought of that, but he liked it. Mary liked it too when he told her what her mother had said, and immediately upon arriving home she changed Dean's nursery theme from clowns to cowboys. When Margaret came to visit she did not find the joke funny.

They had always heard that a child could make or break a marriage. John hadn't thought it possible for him to love Mary more than he already did, but after the birth of their first child things changed. He loved her even more. A precious little being now existed, borne of their affection, made of a union between their physical selves in a literal sense. Here was Mary, here was John, and here was the two of them combined into a whole other little person.

It was hard to leave for work in the morning. Mary often brought Dean into bed with them, and John would lay there watching her play with him, adoring the way she looked when she smiled down at their baby with so much love in her eyes. When she lifted her face up to her husband the love remained. He would gather her in his arms, baby and all, and hold her tight. John had come from a more or less broken home due to his father's drinking. Nothing meant more to him than being part of a family. For the first time in his life he felt whole.

Coming home in the evenings was no less pleasant. Money was tight, but Mary was able to stay home with Dean. John came home to find her singing as she made dinner and a happy, laughing, baby careening around the kitchen in his walker. It was a surreal scene of domestic bliss one usually only saw on television. John jokingly called Mary "Mrs. Cleaver" until she threatened him with one. He took it away from her and pressed her up against the basement door. They made out to the sound of spaghetti sauce bubbling on the stove while Dean kept up a mean back-beat on a pair of pot lids.

"He's going to be a rock and roll drummer," John teased.

"God forbid," Mary laughed, wriggling out of his grasp to rescue her spaghetti sauce. "My mother would have a coronary if someone doesn't end up in medical school."

John made a sour face, and handed Dean a wooden spoon. The decibel level rose considerably, much to the child's delight.

"You're bad, John Winchester."

He was bad. Having a little kid gave him a chance to be a little kid himself for once. As time went by, and Dean learned first to crawl, then to walk, and then to run, John's joy in what he and Mary had made grew in leaps and bounds. He loved to hear Dean shout "Daddy!" when he came home, listen to him giggle and laugh as John tickled him, watch him play out in the yard...

Many years later he would stop and ask himself why he never thought things were too good, why he didn't expect the bomb to drop. Maybe he did know some rain would eventually fall on their lives, but he had no idea it how devastating it would be when it came.

The countdown started fourteen months prior to that awful night, at dinner, when Mary sat back in her chair, smiling at her boys as they polished off a special desert of strawberry shortcake. Dean was four and judging by his reaction to her announcement, he'd had something on his mind for a while, but just had not found the opportunity to bring it up.

"I went to the doctor today," she said quietly. "We're going to get an addition to the family."

There was a momentary pause as John and Dean processed this information.

Dean recovered before his father did, throwing up his arms and shouting.

"YAY! A PUPPY!"


	5. A Pregnant Pause

John was on an express elevator to Hell and he knew it. The clock was ticking. It was imperative that he get out of Lawrence as soon as possible. Some sixth sense, by no means anything like what Missouri possessed, was telling him to run, run, run. It wasn't anything paranormal he felt threatened by this time, but rather the friends and family converging around him. He'd recognized the way they were beginning to act toward him. They would ultimately put him and the boys in grave danger if he didn't do something.

They thought he was crazy.

The shop was no longer his. Vince had bought him out as promised, and John immediately called Caleb to set him up with whatever he would need to protect his children. Shotguns, pistols, knives, and a few other less mainstream items were purchased and paid for, and stashed in the Impala's trunk. Jim Murphy gave him a reading list, and more money was spent on books, which John painstakingly read every night before going to bed. He took notes in the journal he'd begun the day he visited Missouri. Dyslexia became an adversary he took on and conquered through sheer will power. His struggles paid off in knowledge, a lot of knowledge. It opened his eyes and showed him the enemy.

He realized then he had to prepare himself for war. The old Marine discipline kicked in to high gear. He spent time practicing his shooting skills at a local range, and took apart, cleaned, and reassembled his weapons over and over again until he could do it with his eyes closed. Domestically he tried to bring more structure to his life. He found trying to keep everything set to a specific schedule helped when it came to dealing with the children. It wasn't easy, and he frequently went off course, but he did the best he could to make sure bedtime, playtime, naptime and meals were all very carefully regulated.

Sammy fell into line easily. Being on a schedule was something he had been used to and he didn't protest too much. Dean, frail of body and fragile of mind found it more difficult. Although they were not as intense, he still woke up from nightmares in the middle of the night, running to John for comfort. The child barely spoke, frequently burst into tears at unpredictable intervals, and try as he might, John was still having trouble getting him to eat anything.

More problems arose when John had to leave the boys from time to time. There were only two people he trusted to protect them beside himself: Jim Murphy and Missouri Moseley. Since Jim was not local, it was Missouri who stepped in to babysit whenever John needed to get away. She kept the boys when he went to Caleb for his weapons, and when he went to the shooting range. John had also begun taking a few classes in hand-to-hand combat. He knew a little bit already, but needed a refresher course. Missouri watched the boys for that too.

Dean paced and cried when John went anywhere, worrying his lip until it bled, convinced his father was not going to return despite Missouri's reassurances. John's absences were the straw that broke the camel's back. Dean was starting to come completely unglued, and to make matters worse, so was everything else.

John had free access to the garage when Guenther's wasn't busy and he still had his tools. Vince watched him warily as he built a hidden compartment beneath a false bottom in the Impala's big trunk. The wariness turned to alarm as John outfitted the compartment with weapons and beefed up the car with a brand new engine. Vince had some military experience himself. He recognized the firepower John was stockpiling. John felt as if he had no reason to hide what he was doing, nor his theories regarding Mary's death, from his longtime friend.

Until Vince recommended he get therapy.

"I wouldn't be a good friend if I didn't say this John, but I'm worried. Look at what you're doing! Going on and on about some 'being' killing Mary..."

"I know what I saw, Vince!"

Vince shook his head. "I don't doubt you think you saw something. Grief is a powerful thing, man. It can fool with your head. Just...I just think you need to talk to someone about it."

"I have." John closed the Impala's trunk with a bang. "I already have."

"Who? That palm reader? Jesus, John! She the one telling you to read all that weird mumbo jumbo? She the one telling you to buy all this?" Vince motioned to the trunk. "And you trust her with the boys?"

"Yes." John came around the back end of the Chevy and confronted Vince face to face. "I trust her because she knows what's out there, and if it comes for them, she knows what to do."

"You've lost your mind," Vince whispered. "Are you listening to yourself?" He paused and tried a different tactic. "Have you looked at your son lately, John? I mean really looked? Dean is sick. He's skin and bones. He doesn't look like a child, he looks like an old man. You're killing him."

John had heard enough, he turned and walked away. "I'm handling it, Vince."

Vince pursued him, gesturing with his hand in an effort to get his point across. "How? By leaving him with a so-called psychic? What's that going to do? He needs help, John and so do you. Professional help." Abruptly he added, "What would Mary say?"

Just the sound of her name stopped John in his tracks. He stood frozen beside the Chevy, his hand tightening slowly around the driver's side door handle. His shoulders slumped as he closed his eyes and hung his head. What would Mary say? What would Mary be doing if she had seen what John had seen, felt what he'd felt, come to know what he now knew?

He lifted his head, gazing out thought the open garage doors to the street outside. The memory of Mary walking her bicycle down the road in the pouring rain was still very vivid. He could hear her voice, see her face, as she brazenly told her ex-fiance to take a hike. A flash forward and he saw her standing up to her mother, angrily telling Margaret to get off John's case.

_"He's a good man, a good father, a good husband. More importantly we love each other! Isn't that enough for you, Mother? It's more than good enough for me!"_

John smiled wistfully. He turned back to his friend and made his reply.

"She'd be doing the same thing. She'd be doing anything to protect her children and to find justice. That's what I'm doing and you have got to trust me to know I'm doing the right thing."

"John..."

"Good-bye, Vince." John pulled open the car door and got in. "Thanks for everything."

* * *

Mary had remained active when she was pregnant with Dean, refusing to give up her normal routines just because she was carrying around a baby inside her. "Women," she said. "Have been having babies since the dawn of time. You never saw a Native American woman lying around on her ass watching soaps and whining about her puffy ankles now did you? No. You didn't. She went about her work and when it was time to have her baby she had it and moved on."

It was only during the last few weeks of her pregnancy with Dean that Mary slowed down at all. John suspected it was only because her mother put up such a fuss.

With the second pregnancy things went much differently. They almost lost the baby in the first trimester when Mary began spotting. She was confined to bed for a couple weeks and soon all was well again. It had frightened her though, and that frightened John. Maribeth Copeland Winchester did not scare easily. This pregnancy had her tied up in knots. Her anxiety level was high. Her nerves frazzled. John could only hold her close and try to reassure her the best he could when worry began to overwhelm her.

"It just feels different," she whispered.

"How?"

"I don't know. I just...I just feel uneasy."

"Have you talked to Dr. Henry about it?" John whispered back, drawing her in even closer. Her uneasiness was contagious. What if they lost the baby? How would they handle it? He didn't even want to imagine such a horrible thing happening.

"Yes. He says there's nothing wrong."

John kissed her forehead. "Then it's probably going to be okay. You're just nervous. It's been four years since the last one."

"Maybe." Nestling her head in his shoulder, Mary kissed his neck. One hand caressed his side, his hip, his thigh. "Hmm, you smell good."

"Sweat and Ivory soap."

They chuckled quietly together. Mary reached around and gave his butt a playful squeeze.

"Don't start anything you can't finish, woman."

"Who says I can't finish it?" She rolled him over and straddled his midsection. "You, John Winchester, lack imagination."

John smiled up at her, imagining all sorts of things as he ran his hands up her thighs. He loved the shape of her when she was pregnant. It was the ultimate shape of womanhood, he thought. Of course he loved her body when it wasn't pregnant too, but this...it made him feel both sexy and sex_ist_. She was woman, and she was _his_ woman because what grew inside her he had put there. He'd left his mark and staked his claim.

The bottom line, however, was that she was _Mary_, his wife, and that the glow of pregnancy only increased her beauty. Her hair was thick and glossy, her skin soft and flushed pink. Her breasts were full and round, and John found himself unable to resist them. He reached up toward them and managed to cop a feel before she grabbed his hands and lowered them to her belly. Beneath his fingers the baby rolled. He could feel the shape of a tiny foot pressing outward from within. All thoughts of sex dissolved in a surge of fatherly pride.

Mary winced. "Ow."

"Bruce Lee."

"Oh my God, if you dare suggest we name this baby Bruce after we promised Mom..."

John chuckled. It was a slightly evil chuckle. His mood sobered quickly when he saw tears in her eyes.

"What is it?"

She shook her head and sank down into his arms. "I don't know," she whispered. "I just don't know."

It was not the first time Mary would break down and cry during her second pregnancy. If John thought that was uncharacteristic - and it was - he was also shocked when his mother in law offered him some consolation.

"It's just hormones," Margaret told him reassuringly. "Every pregnancy is different, and she's older. A woman's body changes."

The crying jags and the depression were normal, or at least that's what John tried to tell himself, and Mary too when she became upset about it. There wasn't any thing wrong with the baby. Mary was just feeling the stress of being pregnant and having to keep tabs on an active pre-schooler. She was tired. It was nothing, it would pass.

Mary was not so easily convinced. She fretted up until the very moment she went into labor. They weren't on the road this time, and there was no mad dash to the hospital. Delivery wasn't as easy either. Mary was in labor for nearly twelve hours, a harrowing ordeal for her and John who sat by her side the entire time. He would not leave. She wouldn't let him leave, clutching his hand and refusing to let go under any circumstances. It was unnerving for John to see her so helpless. He remained, coaching her, consoling her, cheering her along until it was all over.

Dean had been easy. He had been a small baby. Samuel Winchester, dutifully named after Mary's father as promised, weighed in at ten pounds two ounces and Mary was exhausted when he finally made his appearance. Unlike Dean, who could be heard wailing from miles away, Sam cried only briefly before chilling out and regarding his new world with quiet contentment.

Sam was a disappointment for Dean. Deprived of a puppy, he had hoped the baby brother would show up ready, willing, and able to rough and tumble with him. When told it would be a while before they could go out in the yard and play together, Dean immediately informed John it would be in the family's best interest (Dean's interest in particular) if they exchanged Sam for one of the neighbor's Golden Retriever puppies.

Many years into the future this revelation would make itself known to Sam, who for a moment actually felt guilty that he hadn't been bartered off for a puppy. The closest Dean would ever come to a dog would be some twenty-odd years later when he was introduced to a snarling Rottweiler named Rumsfeld owned by their father's friend Bobby. Rumsfeld would chew an arm off a man before he would even dream of fetching a tennis ball.

Eventually John managed to press upon Dean the benefits of having a brother as opposed to a puppy, and Dean started getting into the whole notion of big brotherhood. He supervised every aspect of Sam's daily care, providing Mary a much appreciated helping hand. She never mentioned it, but John knew she was still having those uneasy feelings. They both chalked it up to a simple case of post-partem blues.

And life went on.


	6. How I Love Thee

The television was blaring, just shy of a volume guaranteed to have the neighbors complaining. Dean sat on the sofa chewing his lip, tugging at the charm around his neck, and staring blankly at the t.v. screen. It didn't matter what was on - currently it was Wheel of Fortune - he stared at the set the same way for any program. The brief moment of normalcy John had witnessed in Minnesota had not been repeated. Upon their return home Dean began an even sharper decline. He'd spoken not a word in days. His nightmares returned full force. He didn't sleep. He didn't eat.

John sat at the kitchen plotting the quickest route to Pierre, South Dakota from Lawrence. He'd received word that Daniel Elkins had holed up just outside the city and John had an appointment with the man. He felt it urgent he meet up with the man as soon as possible. It had occurred to him to wonder if whatever malevolent force had taken Mary hadn't done something to Dean as well. Grief couldn't run so deeply, do so much damage.

Could it?

He glanced over at the sofa. An evil curse would be the easy way out though, a rationalization to cover his own ineptitude as a father. John simply could not handle the emotional needs of a child scarred so badly by tragedy he was starving himself to death. He'd barely gotten through high school. His own grief threatened to overwhelm him every minute of every day. How could he possibly know what to do? Not for the first time he considered turning the children over to Margaret while he took care of business elsewhere. Dr. Copeland would know what to do for Dean.

Only one thing stopped him.

What if _IT_ came back?

A knock interrupted his thoughts - a sharp rap on the door. John put down his pen in favor of the gun sitting beside him on the table. He gathered it up in his hand as he made his way slowly toward the door.

"Dean," he hissed. "Dean, get your brother and go in the other room."

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Dean's terrified face. The child had gone white. He immediately scrambled down from the sofa and hurried to where Sam sat in his walker making a gooey mess with animal crackers. The baby giggled as Dean shoved the walker, with Sam still in it, into the bedroom. A moment later Dean's eyes appeared around the doorframe. He watched as John went to the door and peered out the peep hole.

He lowered the gun. "What does she want?" he growled.

"Who is it?" Dean whispered from the bedroom.

"Your grandmother."

John clicked the safety back on the gun and tucked it into his belt under his shirt before he opened the door. He unlocked the door. He only opened it a crack.

"Margaret," he said.

"Let me in, John. I need to talk to you."

He knew he should have left her in the hallway, but the look on her face convinced him to open the door and let her in anyway. He'd seen a crack in her armor that hadn't been there before. The death of her only child weighed heavily on her, even if she wouldn't admit it. If she needed to talk, John would humor her. It wouldn't matter what she said anyway, he'd be gone in the morning.

The state of the apartment was appalling. Dishes were piled high in the sink. The trash was overflowing. Clothes, toys, and crumbs were strewn all over the carpet in the living room. The kitchen floor was sticky and the place stunk of spoiled milk and god knew what else. He'd let the place go south during the past several weeks. The decision had been made. Everything would be left behind except the bare essentials. Housekeeping was the least of John's worries.

Margaret looked around with a pained expression as John turned off the television. Dean crept cautiously out of the bedroom, followed by Sammy bouncing along in the walker. They remained near the bedroom door, both of them staring out at their grandmother with wary expressions. John winced. Sammy wore nothing but a diaper and the sticky remains of his cookie. Dean's pajamas, which he hadn't bothered to change out of that day, were on inside out. Both were badly in need of baths - and haircuts. Dean's hair was as long as a girls and tangled up in snarls.

"I didn't want to believe it," Margaret said, her expression going cool. The crack vanished. "But I see with my own eyes that it's true."

"What's true? What do you want Margaret?"

She turned her attention from the boys to their father. "This," she said, gesturing around her. "I got a call today, John, from a friend of mine with county Social Services. She wanted to give me a heads up. Not one, but two complaints were filed against you. Child neglect, child endangerment..."

John laughed with bitter irony. All that he was doing was meant to protect his family. So what if at the moment they were a little grubby, so was he. "Endangerment. You honestly think I'd let anything happen to my kids?"

"I'm seeing it with my own eyes!" Margaret retorted sharply. "My husband is a physician. You think I can't recognize what's happening here?" She gestured toward Dean. "Is that normal? He needs help."

"He needs his father."

"He needs his_ mother_."

For a moment John thought Margaret was going to break down and reveal the true depth of her grief. She was good at masking her emotions. She had never shown, especially in front of John, how much Mary's death had truly affected her. He watched her struggle to compose herself and hardened himself against feeling sympathy for her. She hated him. She'd always hated him. For years she had been forced to accept him because he held both her daughter and her grandchildren hostage. John knew she would take every opportunity to wrest that power away from him.

"I have," she said quietly, coolly. "The name and number of a child psychologist. I want you to make an appointment and I want you to take Dean. I've already contacted a service about a nanny - I will pay for it of course..."

"You're not giving me demands, Margaret."

She ignored him, raising her voice over his. "I've found a house, not far from here. You can return my deposit money when the old house is sold."

"No."

"You have no choice."

"That's bull."

Margaret gave no quarter. John met her head on as she took a step toward him.

"This is a small town," she said, her tone growing even more chill. "I may live miles away, but I still have friends here, and they hear things. I know what insane claims you've been making, blaming my daughter's death on some _thing_ that came in the night. One word from me and Social Services will be down on you so fast it will make your head spin." She cocked her own head and smiled a mean little smile. "And don't think for a minute they won't award me custody, John Winchester, not after I tell them how you've lost your mind. Not after they come in here and see this mess. I'm giving you a chance. For your sake you better listen to me, because if you don't straighten up and do right by these boys, I will take them, and you will never see them again."

"Don't you dare threaten me," John growled. "Don't you dare threaten my children."

"Threaten you. You call this a threat?" Margaret finally cracked, losing her control. She gestured angrily toward Dean. "You're killing that boy, you ignorant bastard! Is that what Maribeth would have wanted?"

"You don't know what Mary wanted, you never did! You never gave a rat's ass about what she thought."

"And you did?"

"I loved her, dammit!"

Pain stabbed him in the heart. He had to turn away, bite his lip to keep the grief in check. Like her, he would not let the enemy see him break down.

Unfortunately he chose the wrong direction in which to look. He turned toward the bedroom, where Dean stood staring at the combatants in wide-eyed terror. Even Sam was quiet, but no less upset. Huge, round, tear drops were running down his pudgy cheeks.

"Daddy," Dean said hoarsely. His paralysis broke as he rushed into his father's arms. "Don't let them take us away! I don't want to go away!" He wrapped his arms around John's neck and buried his face in his father's shoulder. John could feel him shaking. "I don't want to go. Don't make me."

John returned his attention to his mother in law with a grim expression. Any thought of leaving the boys behind was crushed. He'd kill before he let anyone lay a hand on them.

"You do whatever you want Margaret, but I promise you, you will not take my boys from me."

She raised her chin. Her voice was like ice as she turned to let herself out.

"We'll see about that."

The door slammed behind her.

With a deep sigh, John composed himself.

"Dean," he said gruffly. "It's okay. We're leaving. Right now."

* * *

It was cool and crisp outside. Fall stood poised on the threshold of winter. John had spent the day hunched over a rusted-up water pump while a space heater threatened to set his calves on fire and the rest of him was freezing. He and Vince warmed up at their favorite watering hole after the shop closed for the evening. John called to tell Mary not to worry, that he wouldn't be out too late, and he stayed for a couple hands of poker. It was his lucky night. He won a hundred bucks before he called it quits and went home.

Mary had made him a meat loaf sandwich. It was still warm and he sat down to eat it, listening to the sounds coming from upstairs. The kids were having their bath. Mary was singing "Row, row, your boat..." and attempting, with much laughter and splashing, to teach Dean the concept of a "round."

"No, silly. Wait until I say boat before you start."

" 'kay."

"Ready?"

"Uh-huh."

"Row, row, row your..."

"Boat!" Dean howled, already forgetting his instructions. "Merrily, merrily..."

Mary's laugh made John smile. He polished off his dinner and left the kitchen to stand at the foot of the stairs. The singing lesson continued, with Sammy joining in with happy squeals and splashing. John washed up in the downstairs bathroom before meandering upstairs to shed his work clothes. He went into the nursery after he'd changed. The welcome was exuberant; Dean rushed across the room to greet him, grinning from ear to ear.

"Daddy!"

"Dean." Grinning, he scooped the boy up into his arms. "So, what do you think? Sammy ready to toss around a football yet?"

"No, Daddy!" Dean shook his head and laughed at the very idea. His eyes were bright, his cheeks flushed pink. He rested his head on John's shoulder and hugged him.

John gave him a return squeeze. "Come on, bedtime."

Dean yawned hugely. Down the hall Mary turned down his bed and picked up his toys. John tucked him in beneath the covers. Despite asking for a story - around yet another yawn - the child was very quickly asleep. Mary kissed his forehead, smoothed his hair, and followed John back to the door.

He caught her up in his arms and leaned his chin on her shoulder as they stood in the doorway watching their son sleep.

"Miss me?" he asked softly.

"Always," she whispered. She turned her face up toward him. He bent to kiss her. "Are you coming to bed?"

"It's early."

"I'm exhausted. The boys ran me ragged today."

John rubbed her shoulders. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"Impregnating you with little heathens."

Mary laughed. "I wouldn't have it any other way. I love my little heathens." She patted his hands and nodded toward the bed where Dean lay curled around a stuffed dog, his consolation prize for having to have a brother instead of a puppy. "Is there anything more precious?" she asked softly.

"There's another one down the hall," John teased, hugging her tightly. Her hair was soft against his cheek. It smelled of baby powder. "Just as cute."

"My, how did we manage to pull that off?"

"I could show you."

"Naughty, and in front of the children!"

John chuckled and drew her off into the hallway, away from Dean's door, where he pressed her up against the wall and kissed her like he meant it. He did mean it. Judging by the way she kissed back, she meant it too.

They parted lips slowly, savoringly. John rested his forehead against hers. She smiled at him, coyly, like a young girl.

"Eight years, two kids and it's still the same," he murmured.

"What's the same?"

He gazed into her eyes. His hands rose to her face, pushing back her hair, gently caressing the curve of her lips.

"How much I love you."

Her smile broadened. "Really? That's a lot I think."

"It is. You're very rich."

"Not with money."

"Not with money." John lowered his hands to her hips. "Something better."

Mary wrapped her arms around him and pressed her face against his chest, holding him with all her strength. "Very rich," she breathed. "Oh, so very rich." Abruptly she looked up at him, and a mischievous glint filled her eyes. "Say, Mr. Winchester?"

"Yes, Mrs. Winchester?"

"Let's go make a girl."

John paused for a moment, considering. It didn't take him long to make his decision.

"You're on."


	7. The Soldier's Way

It was as grueling as boot camp, and as gruesome as Vietnam, if not more so. During eight weeks under the tutelage of Daniel Elkins learning the "trade," John saw more of, learned more about the paranormal than he'd ever thought possible. He encountered things most people chalked up as figments of their imaginations and he learned how to kill them. The dark yielded up its secrets.

Dyslexic and just barely a high school graduate, John was forced to became a student of Latin, history, theology and social studies. He was made familiar with unusual weapons from around the world. Each had their purpose. He went Hunting with Daniel and saw what it took to bring down the enemy, and saw how he could prevent evil from destroying the lives of other families.

John channeled his fear and anger into grit and determination. He refused to back down from any fight, no matter how far outside the box it seemed.

He also made a vow. He would find Mary's killer, destroy it, and along the way he would take out every other evil thing he could find.

Elkins found him to be a quick study, and a ruthless Hunter.

"A lot of it is instinct. I can show you where and how to find the clues, show you the hows and whys of the tools we use. You have to put the puzzle together for yourself, and choose the right way to take it from there. I can't do that for you."

The journal grew thicker. John took notes on everything, and was encouraged to do so.

"This is your Bible," Daniel said, shaking his own journal beneath John's nose. "This is your lifeline, 'cause I don't know about you, but I can't memorize every exorcism out there, and in a pinch, you might need to know more than one."

His first solo Hunt was a simple one in which he was called to clear a malevolent spirit from a home. It was tough being on his own, but he handled it. The family was grateful. John was flushed with the pride of success. Mission accomplished with a minimum of fuss. One down, and god knew how many more to go. When it was all over he sat in the car, panting, his head lowered to the steering wheel. It was going to be a long, hard, road. Vengeance drove him. One day, maybe not the next day or even the one after that, but one day justice would be his.

Jim Murphy had the boys. During the time he was with Elkins John checked in frequently by phone and in person, putting a lot of mileage on the Chevy. Even so, he missed the milestone of Sammy learning to crawl. Daniel had sent him off in pursuit of a banshee. It had nearly killed him. Battered and bloody he thrust a sword through her heart at precisely the same time Sam scooted off across Jim's living room, finally mobile and ready for mischief.

John was in a hotel recovering from Elkins' latest assignment when Jim called with news that made his heart clench up tight in his chest. He gripped the phone with white knuckles as the minister's words paralyzed him with fear.

"It's Dean. You better come."

It was dawn when he arrived in Minnesota. He'd driven all night, terrified he'd get there and find his son had been taken from him not by his mother-in-law, but something more sinister. Jim met him at the door and led him back into the bedroom where the boys were sleeping. Sammy was in a portable crib by the door. Dean was lying in the bed, his cheeks sunken and pale. Dark circles of fatigue ringed both eyes. A bandage was wrapped around one small, bony arm.

"He passed out," Jim said softly. "The doctor gave him fluids, some electrolytes. He was dehydrated and anemic. John, " the minister looked deeply concerned. "You've got to do something. This can't go on any longer or you're going to lose him."

John nodded and sighed. He was more than aware of how close to the edge Dean was walking. He'd tried everything short of sending the child back to live with his grandparents, but he had one more option. It was something he vowed to only use as a last resort.

"Give me some time alone with him. I'll see what I can do."

"Of course." Jim rested a hand on his shoulder. "I'll be in the kitchen if you need anything."

As the door shut quietly behind him, John walked up to the end of the bed, resting his hands on the foot board. He stood there watching his sons sleep for a long time. Outside the window the darkness began to retreat, shedding light across the bed. The daylight made Dean look even worse, revealing how very ill he'd become. Jim was right. Something had to be done to stop Dean's downward spiral, and it had to be done quickly.

Coercion hadn't worked. Patience accomplished nothing. John had been handling his wounded child with kit gloves, afraid he would break. Now he had no more options. Dean was already broken. There was nothing to lose.

"Dean," John said roughly.

The boy's eyelashes fluttered. He stirred, moaning, before opening his eyes fully. His voice was weak and breathy when he spoke, but there was a hint of joy in it when he saw his father.

"Daddy."

John closed his eyes, fighting back the pain he felt deep in his gut. He opened them again to see Dean staring anxiously back at him. Clearing his throat, John inhaled deeply and let fly, forcing fear into anger. He had never raised his voice to the children before. Every word he uttered tore wounds in his heart, but he knew it had to be done.

"I want you to listen to me, Dean, and I want you to listen to me good. This is ending. Right now. Today. I've had enough."

At the sound of his father's angry voice, Sammy stirred in his sleep. He yawned, and rolled over. John watched him out of the corner of his eye, but his primary focus was on Dean, who lay clutching the blankets to his chest with his eyes brimming with tears.

"I'm sorry..."

"You should be, dammit! Do you think I need this from you now? Do you? Your mother was _murdered_, Dean, and I have to find out what did it. I can't do that when I have to rush back here like this. You aren't a baby anymore! Do you understand me?"

"Yes," Dean whispered. His voice caught in sob, the tears started falling.

John's heart shattered, but he kept going, raising his voice further, wresting all the anger and frustration he could out of the pain. "You, me, and Sammy, that's all we got left. We have to stick together. We have to be strong and _you _are screwing it up. You're making us weak. It's time you dry up and get over this crap!"

"But..."

"Do you want it to come back?" John demanded.

The silence was deafening. Dean stared at him in horror. "Come back?" he breathed, after a long pause. "It could come back?"

"Yes."

Turning his head, John looked at Sammy, who had pulled himself up on the side of the crib and was staring at him. The baby didn't cry, though, as John might have thought he would. He didn't make any sound at all. He simply stared.

"Yes," John repeated. "It can come back. Next time it could take me, or Sammy. You have to be strong in case it comes back. You have to protect your brother. Do you know what Mommy would say if you let anything happen to Sammy?" John forced himself to stare his older son down. "She'd be sad. She'd be disappointed in you. She'd be _mad_ at you." He let that set in a minute before raising his arm and thrusting a finger out at the door. "Now. I'm going to go out there and make breakfast and by God if you don't eat it, I'll pry open your mouth and shove it down your throat. Is that clear?"

There was no answer, only loud, hitching sobs, and a slurred_ "Daddy..."_

"I said dry it up, and I mean it, Dean! Right now! We're through with this."

Dean flung himself into his pillow, his tears accompanied now by anquished, hysterical screaming. "I want Mommy! I want my Mommy!"

"Mommy isn't here!" John roared. "And Mommy isn't coming..." He stopped, choking on the words, his resolve faltering. "Mommy isn't coming back," he concluded. It took him a moment to gather himself again. Tears threatened to blind him. He struggled to maintain the stern tone to his voice. "And if you don't get with the program, I will take you back to Grandma Margaret and leave you there."

"No!" Dean sobbed, clutching desperately to his pillow as he stared up at John with blood red eyes. Tears coursed down his cheeks. "Daddy!" he wailed.

"Make up your mind, and make it up quick," John snapped. He walked over to the crib and picked up Sammy. "Breakfast will be on the table. You come out and let me know what you want to do."

He left the room, slamming the door behind him hard enough to make Sammy flinch at the sound of the bang. Standing outside he could hear the hysterical crying continuing through the door. The sobs were randomly punctuated with muffled cries of, _"Mommy."_ From his arms Sam gave him a worried look. John had to walk away.

"What have I done?" he asked when he finally made it into the kitchen. "God, Jim. What have I done?" Slumping down into a chair, he let Jim take Sammy and put him in a high chair. "If he didn't need therapy before, he definitely needs it now."

"Tough love isn't easy, John." The minister's gaze was sympathetic. "I'm sorry it came down to this."

John put his face in his hands. "I shouldn't have yelled at him."

"You're keeping him alive," Jim said flatly.

"Yeah, maybe." Raising his head, John wiped at his eyes. "If this doesn't work I'll have to take him back to Margaret, and what if..."

"He'll be safe." With a sigh, Jim went to the refrigerator. He gathered together a few things in order to make breakfast. "I think we both know Dean isn't who it wants," he added softly.

"I know." John whispered. "But..."

Jim's voice was kind, comforting. He came over to stand beside his friend. "But what?"

"I need him. I need both of them. They're all I have left of her, Jim." His voice trembled. "This has to work. I can't give them up. Margaret would never let me see them again, and I can't...I miss her so much. I..." He shook his head, tears filling his eyes. The words were difficult. "When I look at them, I see Mary, and it's like...she's here..."

"I understand." Jim gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "You do what you have to do, John."

The conversation ended. John sat at the table resting his forehead on his hands, listening to Jim make breakfast. The smell of bacon and eggs made his stomach growl. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. Jim brought him coffee. A small, trembling voice distracted him from his first sip.

"Daddy?"

John glanced over his shoulder. Dean stood in the doorway. His lashes were still wet with tears, and his nose was running. Sniffing, he wiped his face on the sleeve of his pajamas and faced his father with his emotions just barely contained. John acknowledged him with a nod and said, "Well?"

"I don't want to live with Grandma," Dean whispered anxiously. "I want to stay with you and Sammy."

It was what John desperately needed to hear. "You going to eat this nice breakfast Pastor Jim made?" he asked.

After a moment's hesitation, the boy nodded.

"You going to stop being a crybaby?"

One last sniff, and Dean nodded again.

"That's a good soldier." John's voice was rough. He wanted to pick the boy up and hold him, tell him it would be all right, but he knew to give in now would be to fail him. "Get up there and eat." he ordered. "Look at your brother. Sammy's already got half his eggs eaten."

Dean moved to obey, but he paused to check out Sammy's high chair tray along the way. His teary eyes narrowed as he examined it and the baby carefully. "Daddy, he's got half his eggs in his _hair_."

Non-plussed by the criticism, Sam cocked his head and held out a fist full of scrambled eggs to his brother, uttering what would be documented as his first real word.

"Dee?"

* * *

John left Mary sleeping soundly. She was exhausted. After a long day of caring for the kids, a brief round of love-making had done her in completely. Even as the bed dipped beneath her when John got up, she did not stir. John eased himself out from under the covers, letting a lock of hair run through his fingers as he slowly departed.

He was wakeful and restless, possibly still hungry. He glanced back over his shoulder and smiled down at his wife.

In his mind's eye he recalled how beautiful she'd looked on the day of their wedding, walking down the aisle toward him, looking at him with so much affection he thought his heart would burst. He hadn't been convinced he was awake and not dreaming. She'd had a radiance to her that had been almost magical to his love drunk eyes. She teased him later when he mentioned it.

"All pregnant women glow, they just don't always do it _before_ the wedding."

But he remembered how she'd looked, all in white, carrying a bouquet of yellow and white roses that matched her shining blond hair. It was a memory permanently etched into his mind. He'd never forget it, nor the way she'd smiled at him as she left her father's arm and took his hand in hers. He had been a nervous wreck all that morning, but as she squeezed his hand and favored him with a sly, mischievous look, he knew everything was going to be all right.

And it had been.

Mary sighed in her sleep, interrupting John's reverie and tempting him to forget his growling stomach in favor of laying back down beside her. Her scent still clung to him. He could still feel her warmth. The temptation was very strong, but ultimately he chose to listen to his stomach. He would come back upstairs later. She would be there, waiting.

Before he continued downstairs John checked on the kids. Dean had uncoiled himself from around his dog and now lay sprawled face down across the bed, completely and utterly asleep. His dog had fallen to the floor. John picked it up, and pulled the blanket up over the boy, caressing his son's hair with his hand before bending to kiss him.

"Sleep tight," he whispered.

Down the hall, Sammy tossed restlessly. John didn't go all the way in, not wanting to disturb the child's efforts to sleep. Instead he lingered outside the door until the baby settled. Once confident Sam wasn't going to wake completely, he crept carefully down the stairs.

There was more leftover meat loaf. He whipped up another sandwich, poured a glass of milk, and made himself comfortable in front of the television, reclining in his favorite chair.

A good movie prevented him from returning to his bed. A full stomach and the late hour combined to put him to sleep before the film was half over. He dreamed of gunfire, the roar of fighter planes, and the scream of bombs falling through the air. The WWII setting of the movie became the jungles of 'Nam. He'd only been there a year. That had been more than enough.

The bombs fell, screaming...

Screaming.

A woman screamed.

John's eyes popped open in alarm.

"Mary? MARY!"


	8. Homecoming

That first year John spent almost as much time eluding Margaret Copeland's private investigators as he did Hunting. Caleb taught him the fine art of identity theft. John figured out how to scam the credit card companies on his own. They stayed under the radar of both the authorities and Margaret. If anyone got too close, John would pull up stakes and move on, vanishing into the underground for months, sometimes years at a time.

During the first year there were many battles waged with Dean. John ruthlessly dictated his life from dawn until dusk, demanding adherence to "the rules," and making threats when they were not obeyed to the letter. If Dean didn't shape up he would be putting the whole family in jeopardy. If he jeopardized their safety, he would have to be sent back to Kansas.

Forcing the boy to become Sammy's surrogate mother, and when John was Hunting, surrogate father, helped keep Dean in line. He had no time to be depressed. The separation anxiety was crushed by the constant presence of a needy little brother. Ultimately puberty and a sudden interest in girls sent the anorexia packing once and for all.

John wanted the boys to be tough, strong, and able to fend for themselves, because every time he went out on a Hunt, he knew there was a chance he'd not make it back. He knew what was out there lurking in the shadows. It had taken his Mary. It would not take his children, no matter if he lived or not. John raised them to be soldiers because he truly believed it was a war they were fighting.

By the age of nine Dean was well versed in martial arts and weaponry. At the same age Sam could pick any lock John put in front of him. Dean had his father's mechanical talents, Sam inherited Mary's love of language. One regularly dismantled every electronic device he could get his hands on, the other became fluent in Latin, Greek and ancient Sumerian. Both of them became intimately familiar with the nasty things hiding in the dark corners of the world. They didn't have to encounter those things in person - John kept that from them as long as he possibly could - but they saw the haunted look in their father's eyes when he came home from a Hunt.

John continued to drill them mercilessly. No other soldier went through a twenty year boot-camp.

In return they kept him from losing his sanity when he came home bearing scars from the horrible things he'd seen and done. Dean's quiet reassurances and Sammy's silly smile, combined to chase the darkness away. He looked at them and everything was all right again. The boys, and his quest for justice, kept John going when he didn't think he could go on any longer. The three of them clung to each other when the going got rough and weathered a lot of storms. Life was difficult, but they had the strength of their little family to sustain them. Deep down inside, John knew it wouldn't last.

The "tough love" approach worked with Dean. It did not work at all with Sammy, but by the time he realized it, his methods were so ingrained John did not know any other way. He pushed. Sam pushed back harder. He made demands and Sam ignored them. He made rules, Sam broke them. Threats received counter-threats. John rapidly lost control.

And Sam escaped from him.

He was his mother's son.

John was thinking of Mary when he'd folded the obituary he'd clipped from the newspaper and sealed it into an envelope. Mary had escaped the world of her upper crust parents into John's blue collar existence. She'd become her own person, set her own rules, freed herself from the constraints of her former socioeconomic status.

After her death, John had fallen further away from her world. He left the comfortable macaroni and cheese place of the average Joe and slipped into a dark underground few people even knew existed. He dragged the boys down with him. They were content to stay with him until the day Mary's world came calling and Sammy could not resist its lure. He ran from the darkness back into the light while his father and brother rushed hell bent right into the most ominous shadows.

While Sam studied law and fell in love, Dean stuck to John's side like glue. They Hunted together for years before John stumbled upon something unexpected. The thing he'd encountered only once before, twenty-two years earlier, finally resurfaced. He slipped away from Dean and went after it. He learned its true nature, and a few other things that shook him to his very core. Still, he had made a vow, and he intended to keep it.

John grabbed a tiger by the tail. He and the demon played an intricate game of cat and mouse, chasing each other all over the country. John held on like a pit bull, ducking when the demon turned around and attacked him in an effort to shake itself loose. He fought to keep the boys out of the battle as long as he could. Ultimately he failed. The demon went after Sam.

If Dean's old issue with separation anxiety hadn't kicked in the minute John abandoned him, Sam might have been killed - or worse. As it happened, Dean was there to lead his brother out of the fire once again, but Sammy did not escape unscathed this time. Although they were distant, John felt his son's pain. He'd been living with the same agony for twenty-two years and he prayed to God it would be ending soon. The demon had to be destroyed – for Mary, for Jessica.

The two boys were now in it just as deep as their father, and things were escalating. The inevitable confrontation with their mother's killer was just around the corner.

When it ended, if John didn't survive (and he suspected he wouldn't) he wanted the boys to have some place to fall back to, to help them through their grief and build new futures for themselves. He didn't want them to continue Hunting. There were others to do that. Once the demon was gone, and the death's of their loved ones avenged, the boys had to move on.

They would need help, and when John saw the name at the top of the obituary column, he knew just where to go.

It was time to purchase insurance.

* * *

He arrived during the wake. She was shocked when he presented himself freshly shaved and wearing a suit, as if it hadn't been twenty plus years and there weren't bad blood between them. Under other circumstances John might have savored the fact he'd caught her off guard. Not many people could say they'd been able to take Margaret Copeland by surprise.

She excused herself from her crowd of guests to draw him off into a secluded corner of the large common room where everyone had gathered. There she raised her chin and lost the mask of propriety. John knew that look. She might have been grayer of hair, and more stooped of stature, but Margaret was still a force to be reckoned with and she was pissed.

"You have a lot of nerve," she snapped. "A lot of damn nerve."

"It's nice to see you again too, Margaret." John smiled. "I'm sorry it took me so long."

"Excuse me?"

"I heard you've been looking for me."

If looks could kill, John might have been dead, but he'd been looked at like that before by things a lot more frightening than his mother-in-law. She didn't phase him in the slightest.

"If you've come sniffing around for a hand-out, you're out of luck. The estate in its entirety goes to me."

John bristled despite the fact he'd expected this. "I don't want your money, Margaret. Is that so hard to believe? Despite what happened between us, I always respected your husband, and I came to pay my respects."

She was sharp. John had forgotten just how sharp. She didn't believe him for a minute. "You've been eluding me for two decades John Winchester. I'll be damned if I believe you're only here to pay your respects. What do you want?"

He smiled slightly. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"I already believe you're insane so you might as well." She sniffed, and for a second a flash of pain crossed her face. "And it seems to be hereditary. I heard about Dean."

John frowned. "What about Dean?"

"I told you a long time ago the boy needed therapy..."

"What about Dean?" John demanded. Fear gripped him. He hadn't heard of, or from, the boys for months. Not since Chicago, and there he'd left them in pretty bad shape. Had the daevas returned? If Dean was in trouble, why hadn't Sammy called?

"He killed those girls in St. Louis," Margaret said softly. "My people sent me a copy of the police report, and the death certificate."

St. Louis. The shape shifter. John had heard about that one too. Dean had left him a voice mail. It had been short and to the point.

_"The rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated."_

John let out a sigh of relief. He shook his head slowly. "That was a case of mistaken identity. Dean didn't kill anyone, and he's very much alive."

_I hope._

"That," Margaret said shakily, reluctantly revealing her own relief. "Is good to hear."

"Despite what you might think, I would never let anything happen to those boys, Margaret. In fact, that's why I'm here."

John walked over to the piano, a baby grand that sat by the window. Mary had played. After her death no one had touched the instrument, and Margaret, as many people often did, now used it as a display table. There were photographs all along the music stand. They were all of Mary, from infant to...

He picked up the last picture, a portrait framed in pewter roses. Mary stood there in a three quarters pose, holding a bouquet. Her hair was done up off her shoulders, with curled tendrils hanging down around her face. A long, lace veil flowed down her back, pinned at the top of her head by a crystal tiara. Diamonds glittered in her ears and around her long, elegant neck. The diamonds had been borrowed from an aunt. They complimented the embroidered bodice of the long, white dress she wore. John remembered how soft the skin of her bare shoulders had been as he'd guided her into the awaiting car, and how she'd laughed as he'd unceremoniously shoved the train of her dress in through the door.

She smiled out at him, a beautiful memory frozen in time.

He blinked and it went up in flames. Suddenly all he could see were her wide open eyes staring down at him, her mouth open in a silent scream, and the way her flesh had melted from her bones. The roar of fire obliterated every sound. The stench of burning hair filled his nose, his mouth...

Margaret reached over and plucked the picture from his hands. She wordlessly replaced it on the piano.

John closed his eyes and took a trembling breath. "I've found it," he said.

"Found what?"

"What killed her. I have it in my sights. I'm going to destroy it."

With a scowl, Margaret tapped her long nails on the top of the piano. "And what is it?"

"If it matters, a demon."

"A demon." Margaret repeated, obviously unimpressed. "This is what you came here to tell me?"

"Partially. I knew you wouldn't believe me. It's not about that. It doesn't matter what it is, only that I'm going to kill it." He swallowed heavily. "It doesn't matter if you believe me anymore, Margaret. I'm only going to ask you for one thing."

"As if you have that right!"

"I probably won't survive this," John said bluntly. "If I kill it, there are others out there that will come for me. All I'm asking for..." He glanced toward the piano, taking strength from Mary's smile. "I cut you out, Margaret, and it wasn't because of the issues between us, but because you didn't believe. I knew you wouldn't be able to protect the boys from what's out there." Shaking his head, he smiled slightly, bitterly, as he turned back toward her. "I don't want your money. I'm inviting you back into the family, because if something happens to me - I want the boys to have _someone_."

Her brows knitted. He could see her struggling to determine his sincerity.

He struggled to keep his voice steady, managing a slight smile. "You should be proud of them Margaret. Sammy's graduated from Stanford, pre-law. And Dean, he..."

He hesitated. What could he say about Dean, who John forced to become his subservient drone, an obedient little soldier. John said jump and Dean asked how high. He survived by hiding his sensitive nature behind a flak jacket of attitude. His family and "the job" were all that he had and were all that he'd _let_ himself have. John wasn't ignorant to what he'd done to the boy, and he wasn't proud of it either, but Dean lived and that's what counted. He was strong, brave, and determined. He worked hard, and played hard, always knowing when to abandon one for the other. When they'd worked together John never worried about his back because Dean _always_ had it.

Pride swelled his heart.

Dean was...

Here?

John did a double take as he glanced toward the foyer. He thought he'd seen a familiar face, a towering figure among the throng of mourners. A second look confirmed it. At six four Sammy was hard to miss in a crowd. Both of them were hard to miss in fact, being clad in street clothes and looking as if they'd not had either sleep or showers in days.

Their father felt another surge of pride, followed by annoyance. They'd figured out his clues more quickly than he'd expected. By the time they decided to come to Topeka, John had thought he'd be long gone. He debated between staying and slipping away, but he wasn't quite finished with Margaret. He hadn't gotten a response from her.

He looked toward her and found she'd followed his gaze. From the sour look on her face she had pegged the ragged looking young men as party crashers. John didn't have a chance to say a word before she excused herself.

"What in the hell is this business? Dammit, I'll be right back." She shot John a nasty glare of her shoulder. "Don't you leave. This isn't finished."

John lingered near the piano as Margaret threaded her way through the crowd toward Sam. He saw her greet him angrily. Sammy was non-plussed, favoring her with a pleasant smile and whatever he said in reply to her seemed to immediately damper her negative emotion. John saw her frown and ducked behind another guest when she shot a quick look in his direction. Sam didn't notice, following obediently as Margaret took him by the arm and led him toward the den. The moment Sam and Margaret left the room, John realized Dean was no longer with them.

A chord played softly on the piano, reverberating along strings which had not sung in decades. John turned sharply at the sound, realizing he now had company. Again annoyance warred with pride. He'd not heard nor seen his eldest sneak up on him.

"You thought I wouldn't remember Grandma Margaret, didn't you." Dean said quietly.

He played another chord, and a few single notes. John didn't recognize the tune. He didn't know where or when Dean had learned to play either. It was probably one of a number of things he didn't know about the boys. He had raised them according to a certain plan, for a particular purpose. Any extra-curricular activities were taken on without his input, particularly after the huge blow up regarding Sam playing soccer. John hadn't known until the day the boy walked out the door that Sam had aced both the SAT and ACT and won a full ride to college - all on his own.

"I wasn't sure." John cleared his throat. "You tell Sammy?"

"No."

"What did he tell Margaret?"

"He told her we were FBI, working a cold case, trying to track down her kidnapped grandchildren. I think she's in there talking him into arresting you ."

"You did your research," John said, smiling slightly. "He'll know the truth the minute she tells him I'm here."

Dean looked up from the piano. "Yeah, Dad. He'll figure it out. He's not stupid." His gaze wandered toward the photographs, lingering on the portrait of Mary on her wedding day. After a moment of silence he regarded John somberly. "Why are you here? Why are we here?"

"Money."

"You'd never ask her for money. Tell me the truth."

John rolled his shoulders and sighed. "I'm closing in on it."

"The demon?"

"Yes."

"_The_ demon."

"Yes." John paused, suddenly feeling a huge sense of relief. It would be over soon. All the pain, all the frustration and grief, it would soon be over. Mary would have justice. "And I came here because I thought your grandmother should know."

Dean didn't believe him, not entirely. John could see it in his eyes. "And?"

"And...in case something should..."

A discordant note sounded beneath Dean's fingertips. There was anger and fear in his voice. "Don't you go there. I don't want to freakin' hear that. Not from you, and not from him."

John's brow furrowed. "Sammy?"

"You're both ridin' the same one way ticket, Dad. Do you honestly think he's gonna let you take that thing on by yourself?"

"He'll never know."

"Yes he will," Dean said with conviction. "Trust me, he'll know, and he'll be right on your tail."

"And you're going to stop him," John ordered. "This is my fight."

"Why? Because you got hurt more?" There was a hitch in Dean's voice as he added. "She was our _mother_."

There was a flicker in John's vision, like time momentarily folded in on itself. Instead of the man standing before him, John saw the grief-stricken child with tears in his eyes. Instead of the strong young soldier, he saw the frail little boy slowly starving himself to death.

The old pain grabbed hold of him then, squeezing tight. He felt as if he were being crushed by it. "She was my soul," he said softly, brokenly. "And you can't possibly understand that."

"No. But Sammy does."

They stood there looking at one another for a long time before John cleared his throat and rolled his shoulders, shaking off the old mantle of pain and grief.

"I'm leaving," he said. "And the order still stands. Don't follow. Don't interfere. Do you understand me?"

There was no answer.

"Dean!" John barked. "Do you understand me?"

His son's voice was clippped. John knew he wanted to say more, and knew he wouldn't. Obedient to a fault, Dean lowered his eyes in acquiescence. "Yes sir. I understand perfectly." He struck one last chord, before turning away into the crowd.

It had been a long time since John had felt any guilt about the way he'd raised the boys. He'd done the best he could under the circumstances. He'd done the only thing he knew to keep them safe and make them strong. Yet he couldn't help wondering what their lives would have been like if he'd done things just a little differently, if he'd been more of a _father_.

He glanced over to the den and saw Sam and Margaret standing in the doorway. Sammy looked puzzled, completely shocked at the information Margaret was no doubt relaying to him. She had tears in her eyes as she reached out to touch his face. A moment later Dean appeared at his brother's side and Margaret threw her arms around him with a cry of joy.

It was the response John had hoped for.

He slipped away quietly. He didn't know if the boys would turn to their grandmother in the event of his death, but at least they now knew they were not alone. The thought brought to him a great deal of comfort. His truck was parked outside. He climbed into it and sat silently there watching the sun dip lower toward the horizon. Finally, with a quick flick of his hand, he pulled down the visor. In the fading light, John stared longingly at the smiling face looking back at him.

"They're good boys, Mary. They're very good boys. I just wish..."

There was a lot he could have wished for.

Sighing, John turned his gaze away from the photograph to the rear view mirror. In it a familiar grill snarled at him from among the blocky nosed Mercedes and BMWs crowding the driveway. For a brief second he thought he saw someone sitting in the driver's seat, her fingers wrapped tightly around the steering wheel as she peered anxiously out at him from behind a veil of long, blond hair. She smiled at him. He thought he heard the bleat of the Chevy's horn beneath her hand.

"_Come on, let's go. I'm waiting..."_

Slowly, she faded away.

John shivered, suddenly struck by a strong sense of foreboding.

_This is it._

He closed his eyes.

_Soon, Mary. I'll be there soon. Wait for me just a little while longer. I promise, just a little while longer. _


	9. Epilogue Aftermath

He still got tired easily. The doctors declared him out of the woods, but there were some lingering affects. You didn't walk away from _dead_ without some repercussions.

Wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his arm, Dean sat down on the Impala's left front fender to rest. It was his go-to place, sanctum sanctorum, one of the only parts salvaged from the original car. This car had a new frame, new body, new engine and God forbid they use the old interior. It stunk of rotting blood, of death. He'd died there. Yeah, the seats were new too.

But the left front fender... _she_ was still there in that cool sheet of steel. When he ran his hand over the smooth, black surface the pain faded away.

Bobby found him there. He hadn't moved in a half hour.

"This came," Bobby muttered, handing over a padded envelope. "Don't know how anybody knew you were here." He took off his cap and scratched his head. "You want to take a break? I've got some lunch ready."

"I'm not hungry."

"Dean..."

Dean shot him a glare. Bobby let it go.

The envelope had no return address. Dean tore open one end. From inside he pulled out a DVD and a note.

_I though you might want to have this. I found the original tape only recently. I thought it had been lost. Come see me when you can. - M.C._

They took the disc inside. Dean procured Sammy's new laptop and retreated back to Bobby's desk in the corner. It took a while before he found the courage to actually put the disc into the drive. He tapped a button. The video began to play as the first notes of the Wedding March filtered through the laptop's speakers.

Dean sat back to watch, one corner of his lower lip caught between his teeth.

She carried a bouquet of yellow and white roses.

He wore a broad, beaming smile.

--FIN--

* * *

**Inspiration: **

**Death Cab for Cutie - **_I Will Follow You Into the Dark_

_Love of mine some day you'll die_

_But I'll be close behind_

_I'll follow you into the dark_


End file.
